"Do you know any one in Norwich by the name of Charlie Potter?"

"The man who works around among the poor people here?"

"That's the man."

"Yes, I know him. He lives out on Summer Street, Number Twelve, I think.
You'll find it in the city directory."

The ready reply was rather astonishing. Norwich has something like
thirty thousand people.

I walked out in search of Summer Street and finally found a beautiful
lane of that name climbing upward over gentle slopes, arched completely
with elms. Some of the pretty porches of the cottages extended nearly to
the sidewalk. Hammocks, rocking-chairs on verandas, benches under the
trees--all attested the love of idleness and shade in summer. Only the
glimpse of mills and factories in the valley below evidenced the grimmer
life which gave rise mayhap to the need of a man to work among the poor.

"Is this Summer Street?" I inquired of an old darky who was strolling
cityward in the cool of the evening. An umbrella was under his arm and
an evening paper under his spectacled nose.

"Bress de Lord!" he said, looking vaguely around. "Ah couldn't say. Ah
knows dat street--been on it fifty times--but Ah never did know de name.
Ha, ha, ha!"

The hills about echoed his hearty laugh.